


Your Own Personal Nuisance

by sorrens



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a food snob, Crowley is a Little Shit, Crowley's domestic bliss is co-owning a corner shop don't even ask, M/M, aka a case study in the author's insanity, aka an ode to 7-eleven coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 01:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21329818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrens/pseuds/sorrens
Summary: After discovering the angel's disdain for convenience store "cuisine", Crowley attempts a prank.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	Your Own Personal Nuisance

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“Really?” Aziraphale tutted, lifting up the dish and inspecting it closely. The waiter, having recognised the blond, had run for the hills upon depositing their order, “How hard is it to prepare a passable gratin dauphinois?”

Crowley leaned over his (third) glass of wine and glared at the little potato rosette with menace, as if it were to fix itself to the angel’s standards.

Unfortunately, the demon couldn’t actually fix what he couldn’t see.

Unfortunately he chose to ask: “Uh, what’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong—“ Aziraphale blustered, “Firstly, I would take issue with the chef calling this a gratin dauphinois. I would hazard a guess they haven’t even the slightest idea where Dauphine is.”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise that, for the uninitiated, sounded like some kind of agreement.

If he were pressed to find words to back up his angel it’d probably go something like “Ah, yes, the country with all the dolphins.”

He was a demon, not a geography teacher, dammit.

“And, and,” in a very indecorous manner, the blond plucked one of the top scalloped potatoes and held it furiously between them, breaking it in half with a crisp _snap_.

“Potato,” Crowley grunted, extremely lost and not nearly drunk enough for whatever the angel was fussing about.

“No! Crowley, it’s over cooked! A gratin of any sort is supposed to be creamy, and soft, with a light crust on the top. Not this— this— corner shop monstrosity!”

The demon’s lips quirked as he bit down a smile. Here it was, the angel’s bizarre standards had arrived to reign judgement on all of the upper-middle class eateries in the greater London area.

“Pray tell, what of corner shops?” Now Crowley was just pressing buttons. He knew full well that the prissy blond had never, in the centuries of their existence, deigned to set foot in a newsagent or local chippy. "Angel of infinite love" didn’t seem to extend to run down convenience stores that sold potato chips to hoodie-wearing school kids.

In fact, the way in which Aziraphale’s face darkened made him think that maybe he should invest in one of these businesses, perhaps become a co-owner, just to piss the angel off.

The look resolved quickly and the angel straightened his waistcoat.

“I just don’t approve of their cuisine.” He said pompously (through he was say it was _civility_ — which the reader may note he missed the mile marker for long before he started treating his dish like finger food.)

Crowley snorted in to his glass.

“Their cuisine? Angel, 7-Eleven doesn’t have a cuisine. Well, nobody in their right mind would call cheap coffee and reheated pies cuisine.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale defended.

‘’S good coffee though,” Crowley mumbled into his wine, ignoring the glare that it earned him.

“What I’m saying,” his companion huffed, placing his hands calmly down on the table. “Is that I have standards. I enjoy good food. Pre-packed sandwiches are not good food.” He nodded, as if that was that, but Crowley wasn’t done.

“Oh, they do pre-packed sushi now too,” He offered up.

Aziraphale’s hands flew to his ears, as if he could block out what he’d already heard.

The demon decided to end the taunting there; only because the other looked close to tears at the horrifying news and he wasn’t about to make the angel cry.

He was a demon, but he was off-duty, dammit.

“Oh, just eat your bloody crisps,” he sighed and gestured at the remains of the gratin.

Aziraphale pouted, but barely hesitated before digging in.

The Bookshop door was locked. Crowley balanced the large cardboard box on his hip long enough to manage a minor miracle to get it open quietly. The lights were on in the backroom, but the storefront was bathed in the moonlight (and the jarring glare of streetlights, but we’re setting the scene).

With a stifled glee, the demon set down the box and began throwing its contents around the lounge area like noisy confetti. Aziraphale must have been deep in a translation not to hear the crackle of hundreds of crisp packets littering his shop, so Crowley reclined on the overstuffed couch and popped open a bag of Salt and Vinegar whilst he waited.

After a while he found himself grabbing the nearest pillow (prawn cocktail flavoured) and closing his eyes for just a moment.

* * *

Aziraphale had finally admitted that owning a bookshop was too risky. Crowley, buoyed by recent non-apocalyptic happenings, had argued that the contents were too flammable and somehow the angel had agreed (though he suspected the adjective his friend was more concerned by was “sellable”). When they’d banished the last of the books to Crowley’s (now bigger on the inside) flat, the two of them stood in front of the bare facade and frowned.

“What kind of shop do people actually want?” Aziraphale wondered out loud, looking around hopefully as if pedestrians would eagerly chip in their ideas to the odd pair’s conversation.

This was all that Crowley had said:

“Well, what shop is designed for a corner?”

It wasn’t a temptation. What kind of terrible demon tempts his best friend to franchise a convenience store? No, Aziraphale looked happy and confident as he signed the papers. The shop fitters got started (installing the coffee machine first, at Crowley’s direction) and everything was going along smoothly.

The blond stayed away for most of it, probably out of nervous excitement, Crowley reasoned. It didn’t matter, the demon was happy to bark orders to ensure they opened on time.

“You ready?” He beamed. The two of them were standing out on the front pavement. Despite the angel’s protests, Crowley had insisted he keep his eyes closed, guiding him in to the shiny new store.

He looked around at the walls of chocolate bars and snacks, gleaming counters ready to be defiled with all kinds of crumbs, a slushy machine that they would likely give up on within a few days. It was exactly what he’d imagined.

“Okay,” he said tentatively, “You can open your eyes now.”

Somewhere, oddly far away, he could hear Aziraphale’s voice exclaim, “What the _fuck _is this?”

* * *

Crowley startled, the bag of chips under his head bursting, and a cascade of crumbs scattered over the couch.

_Bookshop._ He blinked in the dim light. Nothing like the fluorescents of their corner store. _Bookshop._ He raised his head and saw the sea of crisp packets he’d brought with him. Why? Oh, yes, to wind Aziraphale up. To see that cute way his disapproving face scrunched up when Crowley flaunted the sins of convenience food around him. To hear him loudly proclaim to “have standards”.

“Ta da,” he sat up and spread his arms weakly, wishing he had have been fully lucid for the angel’s initial reaction.

Luckily, he had caught the profanity in the exclamation and it was worth all the effort he’d gone to just to hear the other swear.

“Really,” Aziraphale huffed, kicking some of the packets out of the way as he sunk wearily into his favourite armchair, “what happened to being a public nuisance, rather than my own personal nuisance?”

Crowley grinned cheerily.

“I told you I’d bring some food with me,” he quipped.

The blond pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, you said you knew a good little place in Mayfair. I assume it was a patisserie, or a cafe, or—“ he trailed off, glaring at the gleeful colours of the crisps around him.

“Ah,” Crowley scooped up an assortment of packets and lobbed them in his friend’s direction. “You see, I didn’t lie. Not technically. Lie of omission. But 7-Eleven has all of those things anyway.”

“—And you decided to buy… all of their crisps?” Aziraphale levelled him with a stare that could melt concrete. Luckily that was one of the reasons the demon wore glasses.

“Figured we must be able to find one that you deem… passable.” He popped the “p”, deciding it might be a bit of a stretch for the discerning angel to find Pringles “scrumptious!”.

Aziraphale pursed his lips and surveyed the litter around him.

“I am a bit peckish, though I hardly thinking baked potato slices will satiate my appetite. If I try them will you leave me alone?”

Crowley froze, heart in his throat.

“Like, forever?” He squeaked.

“No, I mean move on to find someone else to irritate with your little crisp crusade.”

Crowley smirked “Nah, even the Queen-of-Bloody-England's been caught snacking on these things. You’re the only one left, your highness.”

He rearranged himself into a halfhearted bow.

Aziraphale made the noise of annoyance that was reserved for his friend and picked up a bag of plain crisps.

“Whatever you say my dear,” he sniffed, opening the bag delicately, like it was a well wrapped present.

“I— oh,” the blond peered in to the bag and pouted, “I think I got a faulty one, it’s only got four crisps in it.”

The angel held out the bag for Crowley to see and the demon’s smirk grew wide.

“Nah, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, my dear boy, you’ve been ripped off! They’ve had you paying for air!”

“Who said I paid for them?” The red head said sulkily (he most definitely had but resented the assumption). “Just eat your bloody crisps, angel.”

Aziraphale allowed his features to relax before raising one to his mouth and crunching decisively.

He made a small humming noise — not quite the one of delight he reserved for his top 5 patisseries, but with slightly more energy than that time he’d been conned into trying chain store macaroons.

“It’s not bad,” he said doubtfully. The angel shrugged and popped another into his mouth.

“It’s quite a sensory experience,” he said thoughtfully, “The crispness is well accentuated by the seasoning. I must say they’re sliced quite optimally to allow the flavour of the potato to still dominate whilst still being light on the tongue—“

Crowley made a noncommittal noise that came from his evaluation of the crisps to be “flavoured potato” if he really put his two brain cells onto the task.

“Oh, pass me that one please dear!”

Aziraphale tried the Chicken and BBQ and something called a “French Onion” before corralling all of the plain chips in to a pile with glee.

“They really are quite nice,” He beamed over his new snacks like a child on Christmas. “Thank you dear for introducing me to this new cuisine. Maybe one day we can go on a date and get one of those cheap coffees you’re always going on about.”

Crowley, who’d resigned to eating the open crisps that Aziraphale hadn’t liked, nearly aspirated.

“I— uh—“ he wheezed and clutched at his chest, eyes watering slightly, “Yeah, that’d be— I’d like that—“

Aziraphale patted his friend on the back gently.

There was a sly smile on the blond's face that Crowley almost missed as he struggled to regain control of a respiratory system that he-didn't-really-need.

_That bastard had known exactly what he'd said. _


End file.
